


Band Chemistry

by epithalamium



Category: BECK (Anime & Manga), Beck: Mongolian Chop Squad
Genre: Canon Compliant, Does anyone care about Belle Ame, Gen, I Don't Even Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithalamium/pseuds/epithalamium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Greatful Sound, Eiji and Manabu have the talk. (A kindly headcanon about Belle Ame.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Band Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Band Chemistry  
> Characters/Pairings: Eiji Kimura, Manabu Miyazawa  
> Rating: R for language  
> Disclaimer: Beck: Mongolian Chop Squad is to Harold Sakuishi and associates.  
> Summary: Post-Greatful Sound, Eiji and Manabu have the talk.  
> Notes/Warnings: I don't know why there are not a lot of fanfics, since it's about bands and is a veritable sausage party. But the most confusing thing ever is the fact that I chose to write about Belle Ame and not Beck. I don't even like Belle Ame all that much? But anyway. Anime-verse compliant, but with bits from the movie creeping in (i.e. Manabu's maracas?).

*

‘I will put together the best band.’

The words that haunt him, rainy evening and those words; the words that were also a challenge. And now it was another rainy evening, and with it the realisation of how he had lost.

It was something that other people would find hard to understand; with the amount of money he makes, who’d even sympathise? But Eiji knew he had failed where Ryusuke hadn’t. The reality of Eiji’s own success different, and if anyone asked him if he was satisfied, he knew just what his answer would be.

He wasn’t. And that was the reason why he’d failed.

‘Why would anyone bother coming in this kind of weather, anyway?’

Eiji turned around at the sound of Manabu’s voice—soft, furry voice that sounded deceptively boyish and hid Manabu’s calculating malice. The sound of raindrops pattering against the canvass roof of the tent was loud and Eiji hadn’t heard Manabu come in until the other man had spoken. The rest of the band had gone away, back to their bus and back to their hotel. Yoshito complaining so much about the weather that the band’s manager finally lost his temper and made him leave. Eiji didn’t really give much of a fuck about Yoshito. He found the kid irritating, but something he had to live with in order to keep the producers happy. Like the sugar candy songs they made him play and the clothes he had to squeeze himself into for every performance.

‘They won’t,’ Eiji said, after a deep breath. ‘See how most of them have left already.’

‘Hmm.’ Manabu walked closer to where Eiji was standing, leaning against one of the metal poles of the tent and crossing his ankles. ‘Most of them are moving to the third stage, though. Or so I’ve heard.’ A pause, and Eiji could hear Manabu counting heartbeats, just the right amount of time between his words so they would have the most impact, hurt Eiji the most. ‘That’s where Beck is playing, yeah?’

‘I’ve seen the video,’ Eiji said, referring to the live feed those whoreson techs had played on the LED screens during one of Belle Ame’s weather-related breaks. We both have, he wanted to add, but didn’t, because that would be playing right into Manabu’s high hand.

‘Malcolm was totally bitching around, I’ve heard. Went back to his hotel without finishing his set.’ Soft sound of Manabu’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Who’d have thought a fucking _rapper_ would play the prima donna because of a little bit of rain?’

Manabu, who grew up listening to shit like R.E.M. and Nine Inch Nails, had a very different sense of aesthetics from Malcolm, Eiji was sure. Manabu’s taste was still a far cry from the mindless pop songs that were Belle Ame’s ‘signature’ sound, but he’d managed to sneak in melodies and lyrics of his own that made them different somehow. The songs were still more ready for consumption than Serial Mama’s old numbers, but the changes still gave Manabu a certain kind of satisfaction. And Eiji as well, although he’d never tell the vocalist that. He didn’t regret getting Manabu to join his band, but sometimes he wondered if the path he had chosen to follow was the right one or not.

‘Well, he’s certainly big enough to act like it,’ said Eiji. ‘And it’s more than “a bit of rain”.’

Would he be here now, if Manabu had chosen to join Beck after all? Would he be satisfied?

‘Is everything all right, Eiji?’

‘It’s nothing. Just tired.’

‘Yeah, I get what you mean. Getting all hyped up was pretty useless, wasn’t it? I mean, all those people getting drenched out there just to see us, and we barely even managed to play a couple of songs. That Yoshito brat couldn’t even sing. Have you heard him?’

‘Do you have to talk so goddamn much?’ Eiji interrupted, before Manabu could go on, lay the blame on him for agreeing to let Yoshito sing for Belle Ame. Manabu had been dead set against the idea—and Eiji couldn’t blame him: all the effort Manabu has made to get them this far, and he was going to be upstaged by a brat whose voice cracked on the higher notes. He’d felt the waves of disapproval and anger from Manabu’s side of the stage all night, even the sound of the maracas the producers had made him ‘play’ had a bitter edge to it. Eiji shook his head against the thought. He was probably going mad.

Manabu gave him a sharp smile. ‘You’re disappointed, aren’t you?’

‘I think you’re drunk.’

‘No. _I_ am angry. _You_ need to get drunk.’ Manabu turned away from him, finally, moving so he could peer outside from a gap in the tent. ‘I know you think I’m an airhead, and you’re probably right—’

‘No “probably” about it,’ Eiji cut in, but Manabu was still speaking, as if Eiji hadn’t said anything at all, ‘But I’m not blind. I can see you’re not happy. You haven’t been happy for a very long time.’

There was a pause as Eiji considered what to say. Not that he didn’t know what he _could_ say—the problem was really what he could afford to say. Words that could be flippant, or angry, or cutting, the things he could never take back and Eiji was sure he’d regret later. Because although he never much liked Manabu personally, they’d never had one would call a ‘row’, and wasn’t that another thing that was so different from Eiji’s stint with Serial Mama.

‘You’re too used to getting what you want, that’s why you never got along with Minami,’ Manabu went on, as if he could read Eiji’s mind. And what was the bastard doing, yapping all the time? He could talk himself to death, for all Eiji cared, but if Manabu thought Eiji was going to stand there quietly, taking this pop psychology bullshit from someone who wears trousers so tight his balls couldn’t breathe...well, Manabu ought to know that’s not how things work in the World of Eiji.

‘You think so?’ said Eiji, through his teeth.

‘Minami’s too used to getting what he wants as well. I, on the other hand,’ Manabu smiled again, waving one hand in front of Eiji’s face. He had long, elegant fingers. Pianist hands, except Manabu loved being the centre of attention too much to bear standing behind the keyboards long enough for it to matter. ‘I like to go with the flow. It’s easier that way.’

‘Bit rich, isn’t it? Coming from an attention whore like you?’ Eiji felt a smile lifting the corners of his mouth at the narrowing of Manabu’s eyes. ‘But go on. Tell me what that has to do with my apparent unhappiness, since you seem to be such an expert.’

‘You lost control of the situation the moment you signed your contract with the label, and it _galls_ you, doesn’t it?’

‘You signed the same fucking contract, if I remember correctly.’ Eiji finally snapped. ‘I wasn’t the one muttering darkly all by myself at the corner of the stage, glaring jealously at that “Yoshito brat”.’

Manabu laughed. ‘Don’t pretend it’s about me, Eiji. It has never been about me. Belle Ame has always been fucking yours, your decision, your fucking band. You’d kick me out for that brat if it meant you’d get ahead. It’s as good as done, anyway. Kissing the producer’s arses and letting them muck up everything we’ve done—’

‘You’re fucking here because of me,’ Eiji said. They were both shouting now, some of the organisers looking in to check on them, head swivelling from Manabu to Eiji. ‘Do you know what I had to do to get us this far? Do you? _Get out_.’

Flash of hurt colouring the anger in Manabu’s face until he realised Eiji had been talking to the organisers. Eiji waited for them to be left alone again before going on, forget about regrets and hurting Manabu’s precious fucking feelings, ‘You know what _galls_ you, that fragile little ego of yours, is that people thought Yoshito was better than you are. The fans love him more than they ever loved you. And you think Malcolm has issues.’

‘Fuck you, Eiji,’ said Manabu. The anger was still there, but Eiji could see the hurt again, the tiredness under all the eyeshadow and glitter, and Manabu’s voice had a defeated sound to it. 

‘Manabu—’

‘Just fucking say it.’ No more than a whisper, eyes finally leaving Eiji’s and trailing down to Manabu’s platform shoes. ‘ _Say it_.’

‘I’m going to break contract,’ Eiji said, taking a deep shaky breath. Manabu’s lips moved, and Eiji thought he said, ‘You fucking coward’, but the rain was still going strong, and there was no way to be sure. ‘You can stay with the label if you want. They’d find you something to do. Launch you a solo career, even. I can fix it up for you.’

Manabu didn’t answer, just shrugged and started to move away, his eyes never leaving the ground.

‘Or you can stay with me,’ Eiji went on. ‘It won’t be anything like this, and we have to start from scratch. More than fucking scratch. After this shit, I don’t think the labels will be falling all over themselves to sign us. But it’ll be different.’ His voice started firm, then turned soft and shaky, like a badly tuned radio. ‘Nothing like this.’

Manabu let out a rush of breath, and then he was walking fast—running—towards Eiji and Eiji didn’t even have the time to react before Manabu’s fist connected with his face, knocking him back against a tent pole, shoulder hurting like a motherfucker, and his face. 

It felt sort of good, the pain. There was a rightness to it. Cleared his head.

Manabu smiled at him. Little smile that was like Eiji was seeing him for the first time. ‘Yeah, I’d like that.’

Eiji straightened up, letting the pole support most of his weight, one hand rubbing his cheek. 

‘Oh, and Eiji?’ said Manabu, boyishly sweet again, like honeyed poison. ‘Lose the tight trousers, will you? Visual kei is not really your style.’

*


End file.
